


Artists and Pitchers

by candle_beck



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candle_beck/pseuds/candle_beck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't wanna think about baseball and I don't wanna think about quantum physics and I don't wanna think about nothing.  I just want to be."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artists and Pitchers

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted April 2005, though it is set over the course of the 2002 season. The title and headers are quotes from the movie _Bull Durham_ , written by Ron Shelton.

Artists and Pitchers  
By Candle Beck

 

 _in baseball, you don’t know nothing._

The game on the television is in black and white, baggy heavy-looking uniforms and worn hats, but the commercials are new. Yogi Berra makes cracks for a car insurance ad, then gets forty years younger instantaneously, and crouches behind home plate.

Zito sits Indian-style on the floor, the coffee table pulled close and his hitter notes spread across the top. He leans forward to take sips of Coke through a bendy straw, eyebrows hunched in concentration. He’s good through the Central, all up and down the Midwest his numbers are amazing. The East has given him some trouble. The West, ever-present, he mostly does well against them in August and September. Which is understandable.

Mulder comes in and slumps onto the couch. His knee presses into Zito’s shoulder in a pay-attention-to-me sort of way, and Mulder asks, “You do that every night?”

“No,” Zito answers, not looking back, tapping the pencil eraser on his nose. “Four times a week. Rick says it’s good to have a routine.”

“Oh, well, if Rick says.” Mulder tilts forward over his knees, picking up one of the papers. “How’s this work?”

Putting his elbow on Mulder’s knee, Zito half-turns and points, “That’s the dude. That’s how I should pitch him.”

It’s pretty transparent, locations and pitch selection, ‘fastball, fastball, curve,’ ‘curve, change, fastball, change,’ and the only thing is that the letters of ‘curve’ are scrolled like city names. Mulder flicks at the last column. “What’s that?”

“That’s what will definitely strike them out.”

Mulder squints, and Zito thinks it’s possible that Mulder needs glasses to read and stuff, but is trying to avoid looking like a tool. Mulder shakes his head, “But you don’t throw a splitter. Or a slider. You could try to throw a cutter, but I think you’d hurt yourself.”

Zito scowls, and tries to get the page back, but Mulder holds it away. “Yes, thank you. I’m aware. But it’s what I’d throw if, you know, I could. Just in case.” He sighs, slides off Mulder’s leg. “Someday, I’ll throw a two-seam, anyway.”

Mulder grins for no discernible reason. Mulder throws seven different pitches and so gets to talk shit sometimes. “Someday,” he says, and steals Zito’s pencil, leaning back. “I wouldn’t go first ball heat on this guy, though,” he adds, and starts scratching on the paper.

Zito checks the game on television and it’s still taking place before anything he recognizes, but he figures that between Whitey Ford and Mark Mulder, he could learn everything there is to know about baseball tonight.

*

 _young men are uncomplicated._

Mulder’s happy enough, late on a Saturday afternoon after they’ve already beaten the White Sox, to play videogames and start drinking before the sun goes down. Zito comes around because he’s got nothing better to do, and gets sneaker prints on the carpets even though Mulder said he had to take off his shoes.

It’s their third year, so they must still be friends.

Zito takes quarters for bridge toll from the spare change on the kitchen counter, and talks to Eric Chavez’s mom on the phone when she calls. Mulder beats him handily a few times at the race game, and then Zito decides videogames are kid’s stuff and stretches out on the couch, reading a months-old copy of Maxim. Mulder always has shiny classy not-quite-porn lying around; it’s something Zito has come to count on.

Zito leaves at around ten o’clock to meet some friends at a club, and Mulder walks him to the door in a weird sort of callback to proper manners. In the hallway, he lets Zito take his Michigan State cap out of the closet and pull it down backwards over his hair. “Don’t roll in too hungover tomorrow,” Mulder advises.

Zito smiles. “’Kay.” He doesn’t invite Mulder out with him anymore, because the two of them have the tendency to fight pretty badly when they’re both drunk. They only ever go out in groups these days.

“Tell me what happens.”

“Always do,” Zito answers, and then he’s a flash of teeth turning away, the white stitching of the S on Mulder’s cap, and Mulder sees his wristwatch catch a piece of the streetlight, and then Zito’s gone.

*

 _announce my presence with authority._

Zito does like the way Mulder pitches, especially on cold nights. Bats splinter more often the colder it gets, and Mulder lives for swinging bunts, squibs, weak comebackers that he can field with style.

Zito likes the way Mulder stands on the mound, weight shifted to one side like his left hand is just a little bit heavier, and the draw up of his knee and the way he angles his gaze down and to the side, eyelids almost shut, just before he takes his stride.

Down in the clubhouse, Mulder’s using an X-acto knife to cut the long sleeves of his undershirt so that they’ll come to just past his elbows. Zito’s got the other razor, and he’s carefully slicing letters out of a piece of white paper. Mulder keeps an eye on him like he’s afraid Zito’s gonna cut himself.

“What’s the hardest you ever threw?” Zito asks, eyes focused on the work at hand.

Mulder shrugs. “Fastest I ever saw on a gun was ninety-nine.”

“That’s pretty fast,” Zito nods.

“One time, I broke the backstop. That mighta been faster.”

Zito looks up, his fingers going still on the knife. “You broke a backstop?”

Mulder snaps some loose threads off with his teeth. “I was really pissed off. Forget why. And I just hauled off and pegged the ball. The backstop was all wood, because it was the old field, and it, like, exploded, little pieces of wood flying everywhere. There was a hole the size of my fist.”

“Dude.” Zito looks at him jealously. “Dude.”

Mulder shrugs again. “I was pissed off.”

Zito snorts, and holds up the page he’s been hunched over, dark eyes through the cut-out letters. “Remind me to piss you off more often,” he says, and the letters read, ‘HI MARK,’ like a message in lights.

*

 _well, actually, nobody on this planet ever really chooses each other._

They get paired up a lot, because they’re both left-handed and they both take a handsome picture, and they’re filming commercials for the second half, out in the Coliseum’s parking lot on a Tuesday afternoon. Huddy’s sitting on a car hood off to the side; he’s not in this commercial, but he was at the ballpark early and came out to say hi.

Zito leans next to Hudson every free moment, saying “be right back, man,” and walking over, leaving Mulder standing there feeling awkward and uninvited. By the first word, Hudson and Zito are grinning already, Zito’s elbow back and his hands woven together. It looks like high school all over again, waiting for friends to get out of class. Mulder attempts small talk with the tech guy until they’re ready to go again.

Zito makes nice for the camera and then punches Mulder in the ribs. Zito’s got some fucked up ideas about what having a big brother means. It’s not all wrestling and bickering. Not when you’re twenty-four years old. Mulder’s not having much luck teaching him, because Hudson totally encourages it.

“You’re bored, huh,” Zito says while they’re waiting for the guy to get the next shot set up, angling into him.

Mulder pushes Zito away. “What tipped you off?”

Zito doesn’t take the hint and slings an arm over Mulder’s shoulders, Mulder again irritated that Zito is tall enough to do that. “Feeling neglected, baby?”

Now Mulder jerks his elbow back hard into Zito’s sternum and feels the blast of air against his neck. Zito falls back, but he’s got a sharp grin on his face.

Mulder sees Hudson over Zito’s shoulder, watching them casually with one leg over the side of the car, and Mulder feints at Zito, just to show no hard feelings, just to play along and make Zito happy, make Zito stick around for a little while.

*

 _in the show, everybody can hit a fastball._

Mulder gets roughed up in his first May start, eight hits and six runs over four and a third, and Hudson and Zito get to see it all from the rail. It looks to Zito like he’s tipping his pitches, but Hudson says it’s his shoulder, and Hudson’s got a good eye for injury.

Ramon Hernandez goes out to talk to him after the fourth run scores, and Mulder pulls his shoulders all the way up, lifts his chin, makes the most of his height. Zito always wants to know what Mulder’s like in the midst like this, because he knows it’s different than any other time. Hernandez says that Hudson’s drawl gets so thick during games, you can’t understand a word he says. Zito, himself, curses nonstop when his catcher comes out.

Mulder fists the ball deeply into his glove and snaps his head, abruptly dismissing Hernandez and striding off the back of the mound. “He’s gonna be so annoying tonight,” Zito mutters.

Hudson folds his fingers together, forearms on the rail, and the side of his mouth pulls up. “More annoying than usual.”

Zito nods. “Somebody’s gonna buy him shots trying to help him sleep and he’s gonna spend the rest of the night arguing with me about situational fucking approach.”

“Sounds about right.” Hudson bumps their shoulders, swaying slightly with his cap tucked in his belt at the small of his back, a tight slender stretch of jersey. “You could just stay away. Let him talk to the walls for once.”

“It’s no good, man. He makes me crazy even when he’s not around.” Zito bites the inside of his cheek, guides Mulder’s slider down with his eyes and it’s good enough to end the inning.

Mulder comes down into the dugout right past them without even glancing over. Zito’s aware of him at their backs, with his cap off and a towel around his neck. Mulder hasn’t thrown anything straight all night, every pitch breaks, and Hudson’s probably right about him pitching through pain, because Mulder never goes without his fastball unless he’s got no other choice.

*

 _molecular attraction and timing._

It’s real early in the morning, catching the first flight out to play in Seattle at noon. On the bus to the airport, Zito’s drinking coffee from a Thermos and not offering it to anybody. It’s not actually selfishness, it just doesn’t even occur to Zito. If it did, he surely would.

He starts talking about deep space as they’re driving over the highway overpass. Chavez and David Justice are murmuring quietly to each other in back, but everyone else is quiet and slumped over with their arms crossed, the day still bruise-colored out the windows, still mostly night, so Zito’s voice carries even though he’s only saying it to Mulder sitting next to him.

Mulder yawns and nods. Sometimes Zito pauses so Mulder can say, “yeah.” He leans his temple on the window and keeps his eyes closed. Zito saw an astronomy special on the Discovery Channel last night. He’ll remember this stuff for all of a day, but he’ll put it to good use while he’s got it.

“So, like, stuff gets farther away, you know? And the stars change and stuff. And in five thousand years you won’t recognize any of it.”

Mulder’s not planning on being around in five thousand years, but Zito’s prodding at Mulder’s arm, keeping him awake. It’s too early for this kind of talk, and the airport access road isn’t helping, all smooth and uninterrupted.

“It’s not a very good map, okay.”

Mulder peeks out the corner of his eye. “What’s not?” he asks.

Zito smiles and reaches out to touch Mulder’s hair, randomly, and Mulder slept through the alarm this morning and didn’t get a chance to fix it up. Usually he’d hit Zito away, but he’s stuck right here, half-asleep.

“The sky, dude,” Zito tells him, his thumb on Mulder’s forehead, and that’s not quite right but it’s close, because a half-hour later in the airport bathroom, Zito puts his hand on Mulder’s shoulder and presses him down to the stall door, kisses him all coffee and cinnamon gum, and it’s been coming for awhile now, it was looking for the best angle.

Now Zito uses his teeth for a split second and then draws away, fingers in Mulder’s collar. They’re not anything close to drunk, as sober as Mulder has been in weeks, and that’s a bad way to start this.

Mulder kisses him again, though, levering off the stall door and holding Zito near to him, and he decides immediately that the next chance he gets, he’s picking a fight with Zito, and he’s gonna win.

*

 _and where can i go?_

It doesn’t come up again until the second city of the trip. Zito talks to the bartender the whole time they’re out, learns about Baroque era painters and how the head bouncer’s sleeping with three of the waitresses. He watches Mulder getting along very well with a bunch of strangers, waits for Mulder to center on one of the girls and let his eyes close halfway, the way he does when he’s trying to pick someone up.

Mulder only ever smiles his photo-day smile, but he also never checks for Zito in the crowd, so Zito can’t really draw any conclusions.

Zito’s lost track of time when Mulder comes to the bar for another round. Mulder rolls a glass in his hands and glances at Zito occasionally, but Zito just looks at Mulder’s hands, trying to remember how he held Mulder down in the airport bathroom, where his hands had been and if Mulder had maybe touched his back or something.

Mulder leans over and he has to half-shout to be heard over the music: “Are we gonna mention it, like, ever?”

Zito flinches, mostly from Mulder close on his arm, Mulder’s fingers spinning a nickel on the bar. He lifts his shoulders in a defensive shrug, turning to call guilelessly, “Mention what?”

It’s a familiar expression on Mulder’s face, the quit-acting-dumb look. Mulder’s eyes look pale in this light, more silver than blue, more white than silver.

“This is your shot, man,” Mulder tells him plainly, hardly even raising his voice.

Zito licks his lips. “Again?” he asks, feeling adrenaline cut through him as Mulder’s eyes widen a little bit, as Mulder’s hands slow and stop and the glass looks dented by the pressure of his fingers.

Mulder gets up and walks out of the bar. Zito follows without even settling his tab, leaving behind another place where he can never come back. A block down the street, under the metal steps of a brownstone, against the boarded-up door of the basement apartment, they spend twenty solid minutes getting to know exactly the right way to do this, and Mulder holds one of Zito’s wrists for a long time, his arm hooked around Zito’s waist and both their hands pinned to Zito’s back.

*

 _latent homosexuality being re-channeled._

And Zito wakes up in Mulder’s hotel room and he doesn’t freak out because hotel rooms are all the same and it might as well be his own, save Mulder sleeping on his stomach with the whole of his back laid out to Zito. Mulder shifts, and one shoulder blade rises, the other sinking away.

Zito waits until Mulder wakes up on his own, not wanting to piss him off unduly. It’s probably fifteen minutes before Mulder turns over and opens his eyes, seeing Zito and freezing. Zito starts laughing at the look of shock on his face, and Mulder hits him with a pillow.

“Guess you didn’t expect to find me here,” Zito says, grinning.

Mulder sits up, keeping the blankets modestly around his waist. “Yeah I did,” he says defensively. “I remember what happened.”

“You can’t argue drunkenness if you admit to remembering it,” Zito informs him, waving his hand around in unclear demonstration.

“Who said I was gonna argue?”

Zito stops, and blinks up at Mulder. Zito’s already got his counterpoints all worked out, he’s gonna explain to Mulder that this won’t fuck anything up and they don’t have to worry, but now Mulder’s just looking at him steadily, all kinds of calm in his eyes.

“Have you ever done this before?” Zito asks.

Mulder nods too quickly, looking away. “Sure. A hundred times.”

Zito snorts. “Liar.”

Mulder doesn’t answer, just reaches out and puts his hand on Zito’s stomach, which is actually an answer all on its own. He doesn’t meet Zito’s gaze, though, and he’s blushing pretty badly.

“Let’s just,” Zito starts, then trails off, distracted by Mulder’s hand, moving a bit now, wide-palmed and long-fingered and a really nice thing to feel first thing in the morning. “Um.”

Mulder lifts his eyebrows, smirking. “Yes?”

Zito swallows, and shakes his head. “Never mind.” He sits up and pushes Mulder down, rolls on top, touching their foreheads. Mulder jerks and arches his back, his head back and his neck stretched out.

“god, never mind,” Zito breathes out, happy for both of them to be gay right now, even if never again, just right now is good enough.

*

 _oh my goodness. we got ourselves a natural disaster._

The rain starts falling hard by the third, and Hudson comes off the mound when the umpires finally call time, jumping on Zito’s back and hanging on with his feet off the ground, soaking Zito’s back and leaving a long wet stripe on his chest where Hudson’s arm slices across.

Zito shakes him off, flicking water out of his hair, and Hudson ricochets away to find someone else to waste his energy on. Zito sits on the bench next to Mulder and the rain is so thick they can’t even see the foul lines. There are dark, person-shaped blurs pulling a blue tarp over the field, and the dugout feels like a submarine, all safe and undercover.

“It’s supposed to blow off,” Eric Chavez says, coming up from the tunnel. “Strong winds from the east.” Chavez is always the one coming up with shit like that, predictions and forecasts, but it’s hard for Mulder to believe because the rain seems unstoppable right now.

Zito starts shivering, bumping Mulder’s arm. Half the team is sitting around in wet clothes, Hudson leaving footprints behind him and Chavez’s hair looking like ink, but Zito’s the only one it seems to be affecting. “You should change,” Mulder tells him.

“I’m not cold,” Zito answers, spiky pieces of his hair trembling on his forehead. He cups his elbows in his hands.

“Yeah sure.”

Zito looks at him sidelong. “You gonna come with me if I go?”

Mulder shrugs. “You gonna go if I come?”

Zito smiles at him in that peculiar new way that makes him look vaguely threatening, and then stands. There’s nothing they can do right now, because everyone’s drifting into the clubhouse as the rain delay stretches longer, they can’t just disappear, so this is actually an innocent moment for the two of them, something that’s been happening less and less.

Mulder pulls the good chair over to Zito’s locker and keeps up the conversation as Zito puts on a dry T-shirt and jersey, uncharitably noticing Zito’s pale chest and the way you can see his ribs all the time, thin arms and no sort of definition. Never in a million years would Zito be Mulder’s type, he’s basically the exact opposite of Mulder’s type.

When goosebumps rash across Zito’s stomach, though, Mulder finds it hard to look away. And when the rain lets up and the players head back to the dugout, Mulder hides in the side hallway and waits for Zito to come find him.

*

 _i’m not gonna fall in love with you or nothing._

Zito goes to Mulder’s hotel room to tell him that they’re leaving for dinner in ten minutes, and Mulder’s still only wearing his jeans, a shirt on a hanger neatly laid across the bed. Zito sits down as Mulder wanders around getting himself ready, and fiddles with the shirt buttons, two open, three, thinking about the dent in Mulder’s sternum and the scruff right in the middle.

“So, listen,” Zito begins, hoping that Mulder will let him pop a button or two later tonight, hoping he can promise to buy a new shirt. “Wanted to, um. Clarify some stuff.”

Mulder comes out of the bathroom, pulling his belt through the loops. Zito thinks it’s lucky that Mulder’s so fucking good-looking, it makes this easier. “Yeah?”

Zito gestures between the two of them. “You and me, like, friends, right?”

Mulder gets a T-shirt from his bag, pulling it over his head and answering with his arms up and his face covered, “’Course.”

Zito smiles, relieved. Mulder gets it perfectly, they’re totally on the same page. “And the other thing, it’s just for fun.”

Tucking the shirt in, Mulder meets Zito’s eyes in the mirror, looking guarded. “What do you mean?”

Zito stands, taking the button-down off the hanger and bringing it over to Mulder. “Like, we’re not giving up anything and nothing changes. It’s just. Extra.” He kisses the back of Mulder’s neck, smooths down Mulder’s hair with the flat of his hand. “I think it’s probably a bad idea to make it more complicated than it already is. To pretend like it’s something it’s not. You know?”

Mulder isn’t looking at him anymore, staring at his own hands putting on his watch. He’s quiet for a long moment, but just as Zito’s about to ask again, Mulder says softly, “yeah, I know.”

Zito flips Mulder around and pushes him back. He can see his own face in the mirror over Mulder’s shoulder, smiling widely, and he carefully opens his hand on Mulder’s stomach. “It’ll be good,” Zito says happily. “You and me, ‘cause it doesn’t mean anything and nothing will be different.”

The button-down hangs between them in Zito’s hand, and Mulder leans back against the mirror, pulling Zito with him so that their chests are together and their legs mixed up, and Zito doesn’t notice Mulder shaking his head slowly, his eyes shut so tightly he looks like he’s in pain.

*

 _white balls for batting practice._

Peterson and the other coaches tell Mulder and Zito to keep throwing, and then they go down into the clubhouse to meet with Howe and Beane. Zito immediately makes his escape, calling for Myers, the bullpen catcher, to take five, and jogging over to the infield, where the position players are taking BP and having a lot more fun.

Zito hates bullpen sessions, always has. He doesn’t like throwing without a tangible point to it, and can’t stand being bored while pitching, but he never complains because he knows it’s necessary. He still weasels out of it every chance he gets, though. Mulder keeps throwing, feeling uncomfortably like a good little pitcher who follows orders without question.

He can hear Zito laughing from all the way across the field, and watches him flitting around driving everybody crazy, before charming his way onto the mound and hollering for someone to take him up on it.

Chavez steps up and Chavez has never hit lefties for shit. The first couple of pitches, Zito goes easy and lets Chavez rope liners into the gaps, but then Mulder sees Zito’s knee, hiked all the way up and the slow cross-body motion of Zito’s real delivery. Chavez swings, but doesn’t even come close.

Zito strikes him out on three pitches, and Jermaine Dye immediately steps to the plate. They all want to get a hit off Zito now, to prove that they can, but Zito’s taking this seriously and they don’t have a chance in hell.

Mulder tries to remember the last time Zito lost a game, tries to figure out how Zito could have gotten this good without him noticing. Mulder winds and throws and he’s not locating, he’s pitching blind because he doesn’t want to take his eyes off Zito and he can’t explain why.

*

 _god, that was beautiful. what’d i do?_

There’s another airport and another hotel, and all that’s different is room and flight numbers. They talk about television reruns, really old commercials. Eric Chavez paces the aisles on the plane, does push-ups in the back by the bathrooms, because he’s always been claustrophobic, and it’s certainly not gonna go away now. Zito mostly sleeps on planes, he’s good at it.

There’s still a fairly constant strain of jetlag, all of them passing out in weird places and getting hungry three hours before a decent meal time. They’re never not tired, and they all have specified nap times, to crash out and catch up.

Then they’re landing in Oakland and everyone’s turning their watches back with relief, California time, at fucking last. It’s been a long trip.

In the parking lot of the Coliseum, the sun’s setting over the highway, into the ocean. Zito takes Mulder’s bag without even asking, and Mulder was supposed to ride home with Chavvy, but Chavvy will get over being ditched. It’s happened a million times before.

They drive north and when they’re in line for the Bay Bridge tolls, the city of San Francisco shines a little ways away, and Zito slouches into the driver’s seat with his forearm on the wheel and his sunglasses on, and Mulder’d be worried about him just falling asleep right there, except Zito hasn’t pitched in four days and he’s been unconscious a lot during the past week, so there’s no reason for him to still be exhausted.

Zito pays the toll in Canadian coins and says like he says every time, “I can’t believe that works.”

“It’s definitely illegal, dude. It’s like. Fraud, or something.”

“I got all these coins, they’re totally useless.” Zito goes up to Canada pretty regularly during the off-season, and he always forgets to bring the leftover money from the last trip, it just collects on his front hall table.

They’re on the bridge, through the tunnel. Zito gets in the far right lane so they can see the whole city, the sun moments from gone and hitting the west facing of every building, lit up gold. Mulder wants to tell him to watch the fucking road, but he understands. It’s one of the best things he’s ever seen.

Zito changes the song, and pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. The skin around his eyes is pale, because there’ve been three day games in a row, and he sucks on the corner of his lip as his eyes flick from the view to Mulder, then back again. Mulder thinks about winding a hand in Zito’s shirt and doing something untoward, but he ends up just taking Zito’s head in his hands and forcibly bringing his eyes front again, and Mulder tells him, “No getting us fucking killed, rule number one, all right?”

Zito straightens up and starts paying attention, and Mulder keeps his hand on the side of Zito’s neck, just to make sure, until they’re down in the streets again and there’s nothing to fall into.

*

 _it’s a long season and you gotta trust it._

Zito hits the wall in early June. He’s lucky to get his seventh win against the Mariners, because though everything stays high, he can still change speeds enough to keep them off. The boys get his back in a serious way, and they congratulate him afterwards, but Zito’s aware that he won’t get away with a start like this again.

He’s in a shitty mood the way he always is when his game deserts him, and he’s not up to hiding it right now. He gets irritated at Byrnes when Byrnes is just being normal, and calls him an obnoxious fuck who can’t say shit until he bats his weight, politely in the earshot of half the team, and Byrnes looks stunned and wounded before he slinks off, not looking at anybody.

Hudson cracks Zito hard upside the head, tells him, “Real nice, Z,” with his voice caught between anger and disappointment, as if Zito really needs to feel worse than he already does. Nobody talks to him after that, and nobody will until he apologizes to Byrnes, which Zito will do just as soon as Byrnes stops pouting.

Everybody leaves without saying goodbye to him, and Zito feels like he might cry, so he goes across the BART overpass to the cheap little Mexican place under the train tracks. He sees Mulder trailing him like a cop, his hands in his pockets and his cap pulled low, and Zito doesn’t want to think about what he’ll say if Mulder tries to fuck with him or cheer him up.

The guys inside the cantina don’t recognize him or don’t care, and Zito drinks gold beer on the curb, eats quesadilla out of a white paper bag as Mulder strolls down the sidewalk and sits next to him as if they came here together.

Zito’s arm hurts, his arm and his head and his knee where the surgery scar loops around the cap. He’s sick of everything and dreaming of the All-Star break, though if things keep going like they are, it won’t be much of a break for him. Maybe he’ll slow up and get his three-day weekend. But probably he won’t.

Mulder’s legs are bent, his forearms balanced on his knees, hands dangling. He’s placidly watching the BART trains pass above, not even trying to beg any of Zito’s beer. He looks like he could sit here until the sun comes up, if Zito doesn’t want to go home.

Zito rolls his neck and feels the resistance in his arms and back, thinks about throwing through melted wax the way he is these days, everything forced and painful. Mulder yawns, and Zito counts the fillings in his teeth, his nose scrunching, because manners, dude, cover your mouth. Mulder meets his eyes and bends a slight tired smile in his direction.

Zito wonders what it takes to knock down something like this, what kind of strategy he should use. It’s June and that means months left to take for his own. Months left of Mulder keeping him company when his curve is being read the way the hitters are reading it right now, Mulder sticking around when Zito proves to be an asshole, Mulder staying quiet when Zito would kill him for talking, a good kind of assurance to have.

On their way back over, Mulder chucks Zito’s empty beer bottle way off over the scrag-brush and railroad tracks. The concourses of the Coliseum are wide and gray and empty, and the players’ lot is just their two cars, and Zito follows Mulder to Mulder’s big car without a word. Mulder smirks and saunters, and Zito takes his wrist, leads him to the shadowed side of the car, the chain-linked fence cutting diamonds on the asphalt.

His back against metal and Mulder’s hands on the glass, and Zito wraps his arms as tight as they will go, wanting to squeeze some of Mulder’s strength into his own muscles.

*

 _i’ll send you a postcard._

Zito gets up early in Seattle and goes out to buy a bunch of postcards, because they’ve been gone for awhile and he hasn’t sent anything home yet. He’s been doing this for years, letters written on napkins and postcards bought on the street, friends and family and anyone whose address is in his little red notebook.

There’s this girl he knows from high school, who was once in love with him but isn’t anymore, and they’re much better friends now. He sends her postcards like it’s his job, because she is still utterly charmed by getting mail, and he’s been to visit, seen the big corkboard on her bedroom wall, pinned up with movie stubs and theatre programs and every postcard he ever sent, the pictures facing front, boats and fields and American League skylines.

He’s thinking about her and her wall, wondering if you could track his career by the postcards he sent. There’s a toothless misty rain, and when he gets back to his hotel room, he almost slips on a torn-off sheet of paper stuck under his door, Mulder inviting him out to breakfast by writing the name of the diner down the street and adding, ‘you buy.’

Zito picks up most of their checks, these days.

Mulder’s in a booth by the window, straightening the silverware atop the paper napkin, and Zito doesn’t sit right across from him because neither of them will be able to stretch out their legs if he does. He tucks his knee against Mulder’s under the table, orders some coffee and carefully explains to the waitress how to properly make his omelet.

Mulder’s glowering at the tabletop, looking vindictive the way he does in the morning. Zito can still see the crease in his T-shirt where it was folded into his suitcase, a horizontal line across Mulder’s chest.

They don’t talk much because there’s a window to look out, and anyway it’s early. The sunlight looks waxed, the streets black plastic. Zito thinks about how when he was a kid, he’d wake up sometimes at five or six in the morning, a car horn or a dog bark and then he was up for good. He’d go out to the kitchen, bare feet on the linoleum, and his parents would always be there, no matter how early, sipping coffee and listening to the jazz station on low volume, passing sections of the newspaper across the table. He remembers being probably four years old and being convinced that his parents never slept, spent the whole night quietly killing time in the kitchen, waiting for him to wake up.

At a newsstand halfway back to their hotel, Mulder stops suddenly, and takes a magazine down from the rack. He smiles, his eyes down and his head tipped to the side. Zito crowds near his shoulder, pestering for a look, and Mulder holds the magazine out. It’s the latest Sporting News. Zito’s on the cover.

Zito beams, touches his own face, traces the number 75 on his jersey. It’s a good picture; he only looks a little bit stoned.

Mulder claps him on the back, his voice uneven in Zito’s ear as he teases, “Everybody wants a piece of my boy.”

*

 _i know. i have that dream all the time too. we’re almost home._

Chavez drags Mulder out straight from the airport, because Chavez is trying to start something with a waitress at the bar they go to a lot, and he’s missed a week and a half of flirting. Zito attaches himself to Chavez’s belt and tags along, antsy from the flight and wanting to follow them home and sleep on their couch.

Chavez says he’s gonna stay till close, but Mulder and Zito leave an hour or so before, when Zito realizes that he’s fully supporting Mulder’s weight and the wall is fully supporting his own. With Mulder’s arm around his neck and his hand hanging down Zito’s chest, Zito guides them towards the door, the world in need of refocusing, Mulder warm against his back.

“How much you wanna bet Chavvy comes in in the same clothes tomorrow?” Zito asks, and feels Mulder shudder as he snorts a laugh, nodding and clonking their heads together.

“Seven thousand dollars, at least.” They’re outside now and it’s seventy degrees, t-shirt weather at one in the morning, and it’s welcome after the humidity inside. Mulder’s heavy and sliding his hand up to pet Zito’s neck.

Zito hails a cab, grateful that they’re a small-market team and aren’t well enough known to get caught for this shit.

Mulder falls asleep on the ride and Zito worries that he passed out, because how the fuck is he supposed to wrangle an unconscious Mulder into the house, but Mulder squirms when Zito pokes him and mumbles, “punk, fuckin’ zito, quit it,” when Zito pulls at his ear.

In the driveway, Zito pays the cabbie with Mulder back on his shoulder, and he thinks about laying Mulder down on the grass and calling it done. Instead, he fishes Mulder’s keys out of his pocket and Mulder wakes up a bit and stirs in confusion.

“It’s okay, man,” Zito tells him, one arm around Mulder’s waist, his hand full of keys and clinking as he pats Mulder’s chest. “We’re all the way back now, we’re gonna go inside and fall asleep.”

Zito looks around Mulder at the dark house, the moon all collarbone-white and hooked over the chimney. Zito’s pretty drunk himself, though at least he’s sort of maintaining, and he won’t remember that this isn’t where he lives until he wakes up there in the morning.

*

 _that don’t make me queer, right?_

Mulder gets up and goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night, rain on the windows of Zito’s bedroom, making him think about rain delays again, stadiums with roofs. He brushes his teeth because he’s got a bad taste in his mouth, though he didn’t have that much to drink tonight. He’s not sure whose toothbrush he used, but it might have been one of his.

He climbs back in bed, hands cold, and Zito shivers when he slides near to him, wakes up and blinks at him foggily. “You still here?”

Mulder’s hand screws into the sheets. “I was gonna maybe go.”

Zito nods, lays his head back down, his face perfectly unlined. “Yeah, you should go.” He curls his fingers around Mulder’s arm, the heel of his hand in the bend of Mulder’s elbow. “In a little while, you can go.” He falls back asleep.

Mulder won’t watch him sleeping and he thanks god for the rain, the show at the window, lightning like camera flashes and the blur of the world outside the lines.

*

 _twenty-one greatest days of my life._

The team’s fifth win in a row, and Zito’s seventeenth on the season. At home against the White Sox during the day, not a very good performance for Zito, for the ridiculous standards of Zito’s year so far, but he has seven runs of support to work with, a pretty good day at the ballpark all around.

Zito goes out to a club that night and he says he’s gonna come over after, but instead he calls Mulder at midnight and says he kinda met a girl, raincheck maybe? Zito has started getting recognized an awful lot around this city and the other one, but they’ve definitely got a policy about sleeping with groupies, and the policy is a hard no, or at least, not while they aren’t on the road. Mulder doesn’t say anything, though, just abstractly hopes that Zito doesn’t give him the details tomorrow.

The team’s ninth, Mulder’s fifteenth. They’re back on the road, but it’s easy this time, it’s so much fun. That night, it’s a fire escape in Cleveland, painful iron corners and edges that leave marks on their bodies, Zito’s knees and the backs of Mulder’s arms. The two of them are getting careless, letting it happen more often. Hatteberg and Dye are right on the other side of the brick, and Zito sinks his teeth into Mulder’s shoulder to keep quiet.

But they’re all like that, reckless, thoughtless. It’s a tendency attached directly to the run they’re on, this whole winning thing. They’re oddly joyful, every morning and every night. Everything’s going right, so they’re bound to do something stupid, eventually.

Zito brought beers out, and they drink them afterwards sitting on the same step of the fire escape, braced against each other and breathing shallowly, watching the factories on the edge of town, the match-red fires and pale smoke.

The team’s fifteenth, and Zito’s nineteenth, and Mulder can’t believe any of this, it’s past his ability to comprehend it. Zito’s starts are getting progressively better—he hasn’t lost in a month and it doesn’t really seem like he’s gonna. His record is good, his ERA is amazing, he’s even striking people out at a terrifying rate. Everybody’s playing well, but nobody’s playing as well as Zito.

Zito disappears all night, this huge club they’re at in Kansas City, three floors and all these different beats. Mulder gives up looking for him, and commences to see flashes of Zito in the crowd for hours.

Then Zito is suddenly there in a hallway where the walls are shaking. He grabs Mulder’s belt and kisses him good and hard, Mulder’s eyes watering from the smoke. Zito lets go, smiles, winks, and gets away again, one win from twenty and closer every day.

The team’s twentieth comes first, though, and neither of them pitches in that game. On the bench, Zito keeps hollering and grabbing Mulder’s arm, first in joy, then with mounting fear.

Mulder won’t remember a minute of this. He won’t remember the moment they won, he never sees the ball go over the fence. He can’t look, can’t bear it. It’s gonna kill him, not knowing this by heart, but he keeps his eyes closed and his head bowed, forehead on his own hand, on Zito’s arm. He’ll remember getting pulled onto the field, though. He’ll remember everybody crashing into everybody else at home plate, and he’ll remember being certain of something very important at that moment.

They stay up drinking at Mulder and Chavez’s house that night, because there’s an off-day before they go to Minnesota. They don’t talk about the streak, because it feels like bad luck, but it’s pretty apparent in everyone’s eyes.

Zito passes out in the armchair and Chavez throws a blanket over him, his feet sticking out with one sock on and one sock pulled off his heel. A couple hours later, Mulder gets woken up by the canvas of Zito’s watchband rasping on his side. Zito gets into bed with him and bumps his head on Mulder’s back in greeting, then falls back asleep, and Mulder thinks for a while about the past three weeks of his life.

*

 _he fucks like he pitches. sorta all over the place._

By mid-September, Zito’s all fucking anointed, and shit. It’s not a surprise, the season he’s had, the clear expectations and all the national press coming to get shots of the cute white boy with a guitar who’s a Cy Young front-runner. It’s that time of the year. Last year, it was somebody else, so this isn’t gonna last.

Anyway, Zito takes to being endearing and famous, gives a lot of interviews that talk about his hair and clothes, and starts fucking strangers a bit more often. They like him because he’s famous, or because he looks famous, anyway, even when they don’t know him, girls that are just about too young for Mulder to go after but that Zito can still pull off. He is _the_ guy to pick up in a bar this year.

Mulder hears about a lot of it. Because nothing’s changed and friends are supposed to share.

It’s gotten pretty annoying. Zito comes to Mulder’s hotel room smelling like perfume, and he doesn’t know when to shut up.

“She got up on the car, man, this Jag. Lucky there wasn’t an alarm. She pulled her skirt up-” Zito flattens Mulder against the door, his hands opened on Mulder’s stomach under his shirt. The perfume is clinging to him, soft and sweet and a hundred dollars an ounce. Mulder can smell Speedstick underneath it, and the damp smell of Zito’s shampoo that get stronger when Zito’s hair is dark with sweat.

“Got her legs around my waist,” Zito murmurs, licking Mulder’s neck. Mulder had watched Zito’s hand sliding higher on the girl’s leg in the bar, until his fingertips were under the fabric and she was looking at him nakedly, her face flushed.

Zito works his hand into Mulder’s boxers, curling his fingers and moving his thumb. Mulder tilts his head back and Zito leans up to kiss him, tasting like strawberry lip gloss and Dr. Pepper.

Zito keeps talking, jerking him off very slowly and grinding almost casually against Mulder’s side. “She fucked like she was getting paid, man.”

“Wasn’t she?” Mulder mumbles without even thinking. Zito growls and tightens his grip, a bolt of pain and heat and Mulder gasping, closing his eyes.

“Fuck you,” Zito says, and Mulder nods, pushing his hips up. Zito grins, teeth hard against Mulder’s jaw. “Find me a Jaguar and I’ll fuck you.” His voice is getting ragged, rocking unevenly against Mulder. “It was so hot. So fucking hot.”

Mulder sucks at Zito’s shoulder through his shirt, thinking about how it’s not fair, Zito doesn’t even have to try. He just smiles all quiet and shy and looks so harmless, and then his hand is on the girl’s knee, all of a sudden like a magic trick. He comes to Mulder’s room and tells him all about it, just like he’s supposed to.

Mulder pulls Zito’s hand off him, feeling burned and cold, and pushes Zito away. Mulder strips his shirt off, stands there with his jeans open and half of everything showing, sees Zito’s eyes narrow, Zito licking his lips.

“You really need a Jaguar?”

Zito shakes his head, pulls off his shirt, tears his jeans open. Mulder’s got him on the bed before Zito can make another crack, and he finds silver glitter on Zito’s chest, a phone number in smeared writing on his forearm, smelling so pretty Mulder can almost forget that he’s a guy.

*

 _i got a good idea about that five-cent head of yours._

Zito sleeps through his alarm and three calls on his cell phone, and it’s eventually Huddy who gets through to him, pounding on his room door twenty minutes past when they were supposed to leave for the park.

Huddy calls him names, leaning in the doorway, and keeps saying, “hurry _up_ , man, everybody’s waiting,” as Zito throws on a sweatshirt and jeans and declares himself dressed even though he’s not wearing a T-shirt or socks. He pours a double handful of water over his head to try and make his hair lie down a little bit, and grabs his stuff.

Zito does his best to look contrite as Howe quickly tears into him for being late, and then they’re on the bus, Zito all the way in the back where he can get away with stuff. Mulder is two seats in front, reading a magazine, which is all Mulder ever reads, packs them in his suitcase and everything. Zito hasn’t gotten a good look at him yet today, and now all he can see is the back of Mulder’s neck, the side of his face.

Last night was a late night, but Mulder wasn’t there. Zito got back from the bar and there was a message on his phone saying, come over if you want, but he didn’t bother responding. He wonders if Mulder waited.

Mulder trades his magazine for Byrnes’s Gameboy. Irritatingly, he leaves the volume on, which does nothing for Zito’s hangover. The game makes chirpy you-win noises, Zito can tell that Mulder hasn’t died once. He gets up and takes the seat right behind Mulder, leaning forward with his chin close to Mulder’s shoulder.

“I got one of the high scores on this game,” Zito says, and Mulder starts, snapping a glance back at him. Mulder smiles coolly.

“That’s probably a real big deal for you.”

Zito pushes his knuckles into the back of Mulder’s arm. “Mute that shit,” he says. “You’re bothering everyone.”

Mulder doesn’t for a second, just keeps playing with his eyes held steadily on the screen. Then he turns off the sound, the tips of his ears dark red. Mulder doesn’t say anything to him, and Zito loses interest.

He sits back, pulls his hood up, and reads his own book, something without pictures or theme music. When they get to the ballpark, Mulder stands and fills the space from floor to ceiling, resting his head against one of overhead luggage racks. Zito grasps Mulder’s hand and pulls himself up. Mulder looks at him with surprise for the moment that they’re standing there with Zito’s fingers folded around Mulder’s, then Mulder flushes and turns forward.

Zito grins, tucking the tag of Mulder’s shirt back under his collar and feeling Mulder’s head snag slightly against his hand. Zito thinks about how cool it is that they’re both so cool with this. That he doesn’t have to be anything to Mulder except a friend, and being a friend Zito knows how to do. He should have figured, though. Mulder never thinks about anything; why should this be an exception?

*

 _here comes the deuce, and when you speak of me, speak well._

Zito is relying heavily on the curve, this road trip. He sees no reason not to, he can put it anywhere and the entire American League finds it impossible to figure out. They’ve got a pretty comfortable lead, here in the last weeks. One hand back against the Angels, holding them down, but no one to catch on the other side. Having spent most of his major league career in second place, Zito knows very well to respect this.

In Anaheim, though, they only win one of four, and suddenly they’re tied for first again. It happens so fast. The wild card will likely come from the West, but nobody wants to go in like that. This is their division and they will take it.

In the last game, Mulder allows five runs on five hits over seven, a weird box score because usually five hits is pretty good, but that’s the kind of team the Angels are this year, they score runs out of fucking nothing.

Zito’s starting tomorrow in the opener of the season’s last home-stand, against the Mariners, and he goes up to Mulder’s hotel room in the two hours of free time they have before their flight north. Mulder’s lying on the bed with a shirt over his face and a pack of ice strapped down on his shoulder. His roller suitcase and duffel bag are neatly waiting by the door.

Zito flops down next to him, near his unbound shoulder. He hums and whistles, waiting for Mulder to tell him to shut the fuck up. Mulder doesn’t, though. Maybe he finds it meditative.

Zito thinks about how Mulder’s skin will be very cold right now, certain places near his collarbone and shoulder blade, distinct lines separating warm from cold. Zito would like to find out for sure, but if they fuck, Mulder will be eight times more tired tomorrow.

After awhile, it’s pretty boring, just Mulder breathing alertly and the various amusing sounds Zito’s making. Zito, absently, starts drumming his fingertips on Mulder’s arm, down in the curve of his wrist. Mulder stays very quiet.

Zito is kind of irritated that Mulder pitched today and so they can’t fuck around now, and he draws a 17 with his fingertip on the skin over the thin veins. Then he draws a 20. Then he feels guilty, because their respective records aren’t really a weapon he wants to use.

“How’s it gonna go tomorrow?” Mulder asks, and Zito’s fingers still.

“Really well,” Zito tells him.

“You’re gonna win?”

Zito makes his fingers curve around Mulder’s wrist, pulse in the angles. “Gonna shut them down, man. They’ll call it my best of the season.”

Mulder rests his forearm across the shirt on his face, hiding his eyes even more. “That’s good.”

“You’re not gonna know what to do with me,” Zito whispers, closing his eyes and smirking, bending his head to brush Mulder’s shoulder with his nose.

“I never do, babe,” Mulder says, and Zito’s fingers tighten a bit on his wrist, slide around looking for stitches.

*

 _you want me to call you a cocksucker?_

Mulder goes to San Francisco on a Wednesday night, late after a night game. Zito had looked at him in the clubhouse with a carrot stick from the spread stuck in his mouth, his head canted slightly and his eyebrows up, and Mulder figured that was an invitation.

It’s been at least a couple of days since last time, and unlike Zito, Mulder doesn’t do anything on the side, so he can legitimately consider it a drought. Mulder never even notices anybody else these days, odd enough for a man who’s cheated on every single girlfriend he’s ever had, but he has no trouble with loyalty, or at least not with this kind of loyalty. It doesn’t come up very often, but Mulder can be faithful, if faith is what’s required.

Zito’s apartment door is unlocked, because it’s better for Zito not to have to keep track of keys. The place is empty, though, well-vacuumed rugs and piles of junk on the table. Mulder gets a beer and turns on the television.

He’s watching a show about the NBA when there’s a thud on the front door and then Zito falls in, his hand closed in some guy’s shirtfront, pulling him near and tossing the door shut. Zito’s arm goes around the guy’s waist and Mulder watches with a kind of awe as Zito kisses him, walks him backwards into the wall and runs his free hand up under the guy’s shirt.

The guy’s belt is open before he finally sees Mulder from around Zito, and his eyes get big and white and he says, “whoa hey, what the fuck?” He pushes at Zito’s chest and Zito looks back. When Zito meets Mulder’s eyes and smiles, Mulder stands.

“Dude, hi,” Zito says. His hands are still on the guy, one screwed up in his shirt and the other hooked on his belt. Mulder would bolt if they weren’t standing in front of the door.

“What are you doing?” Mulder manages after a minute of trying.

Zito looks at his trick, looks back at Mulder, his face blameless and naïve. “What do you mean?” he answers. “Kinda obvious, isn’t it?”

Mulder shakes his head, stares at the floor. “Okay, I should go.”

Zito narrows his eyes, but shrugs. The guy peers at Mulder nervously from around Zito’s shoulder, his hand on Zito’s hip. Mulder feels absurdly like some kind of stalker ex-boyfriend.

Mulder leaves and is waiting for the elevator without a single coherent thought in his head, and Zito says his name from down the hallway. He’s taken off his jacket, but that’s the only difference, and he comes up to Mulder alone, the lit numbers above the elevator doors counting higher.

“You don’t,” Zito starts and then stops, pushes his hair back with his hand. “I didn’t know you were coming over, or we coulda—you should have called.”

Mulder nods. “I should have,” he says to his blurry reflection in the doors.

“Try me again, like, tomorrow,” Zito tells him with a grin. “And we can-”

“You do that with guys too?” Mulder interrupts him, balling his hands in his coat pockets.

“Do what?”

Mulder flaps his hand back towards Zito’s apartment, something hot and dry behind his eyes. “You take them home, you, you don’t even know him. You do that with guys.”

“Um. Yeah?” Zito says slowly, clearly not getting it.

Mulder bites his tongue. “You’re not gay,” he says in a low voice.

Zito laughs. “I’m at least a little bit gay, dude.” Mulder can see how it would seem self-evident, considering the things he’s seen Zito do, all the things he’s done to Zito himself, but it’s never been that clear-cut, not for either of them. It’s never been something that fits in some kind of category.

There should be a distinction made, it’s got to be emphasized that this whole thing is an anomaly, not a representative case. Without Zito, Mulder’s not gay, and by all rights, it should go both ways.

Mulder suddenly wants to call him names, really horrible things that would get him thrown out of a ballgame. He fights it off, though. “Just be careful,” he says tonelessly. “Don’t get caught.”

Zito shows his teeth again. “He’s not the one I’m worried about getting caught with,” he says, and kisses Mulder’s cheek, quickly leaning in with his hand on Mulder’s stomach, a high chime in Mulder’s head as the elevator doors open and Zito pulls back, turns away. Mulder gets on the elevator and faces Zito’s retreating back until the doors close.

*

 _c’mon, dazzle me._

They clinch the division on the 27th of September. Mulder goes seven against the Rangers, three hits, no runs, and the plastic’s already on the lockers when he goes down to the trainer’s room after he gets lifted.

Zito comes down as Koch is making it interesting, men on in the bottom of the ninth and Mulder’s shoulder bulky with ice and tape. Mulder looks over when Zito comes in and his mouth does the weird twitchy thing it’s been doing recently, like he’s biting something back. Zito is too anxious to say hi, and hops up next to Mulder on the table, turning up the volume on the monitor.

Zito jogs his knee until Mulder tells him sharply to knock it off, so Zito just trembles faintly, his eyes big and his blood moving fast. He thinks about New York City, last year with all the flags at half-mast and everyone walking around looking like the buildings that had come down had been inside them, and New York City two years ago when he was a rookie and nobody had figured him out yet. He thinks, ‘third time’s a charm.’

Koch allows a run, then another, and the lead is down to one. Zito grips Mulder’s leg compulsively, halfway surprised that Mulder doesn’t brush him off; Mulder’s been kinda easy to piss off recently.

Zito’s fingernails leave dents when Koch pulls it out, and Zito barely has time to whoop before Mulder’s grabbing him in an awkward sideways hug, Zito’s shoulder against Mulder’s chest and the pack of ice pressed into Zito’s head. Zito buries his face in the first patch of skin he can find and laughs till he’s afraid he’s gonna pass out.

*

 _you know how many guys out there’d give blood to be in your shoes?_

Then Zito’s winning the last game of the season, a couple of days after they took the division, out here in Texas on a Sunday, and Chavez is out of the line-up for the day and running a fever, hanging off Mulder, hot as a stove.

Zito comes into the dugout and he’s laughing and fucking around with Huddy, something he’d never normally do while pitching, he saves that for Mulder’s starts. But Zito’s got nothing to be intense about, right now. Nothing to take seriously. Twenty-two wins and if the lead holds, twenty-three, and that’s just kind of scary to think about.

Mulder tears up a Gatorade cup, nineteen with a bullet and that’s it. This was supposed to be his year, because last year somehow wasn’t, but it’s not working out like he thought. Zito’s flicking Hudson’s ear absently, Huddy’s swatting him like a fly, and Mulder wonders how long before he should go join them.

Mulder’s thinking about the pursuit of perfection, which has been his entire life, and at this moment as much as ever. He’s thinking that he already knows how it’s gonna go, because there’s no way Zito will be this good forever. And when he comes down (finally, please, at last), Mulder will too.

Chavez leans heavily on him and Mulder can feel himself catching Chavez’s flu. He’s got to get away; Chavez recovers from everything with eerie speed, but Mulder’s injuries nag and plague and drag him under.

“He’s gonna get stolen away,” Chavez says hazily. Mulder looks down and Chavez grins, shiny-eyed and nervous. “It’s bound to happen, man.”

Mulder shoulders Chavez off him. “Make sense or stop talking.”

“Never gonna be able to afford him. Not now. Ten million dollars just for his left arm. Three million for the rest of him.”

The dugout empties as their half of the inning ends, and Mulder watches Zito talking to Hatteberg on the mound before he starts his warm-ups, Hatteberg laughing at something Zito says and tugging a lace on his glove tighter with his teeth.

“I’d take just his left arm and leave the rest of him,” Mulder says, trying to play it off.

Chavez grins again, shaking his head. “The hell you would.” Mulder keeps his eyes on the field, because Chavez doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.

“Remember, remember when you guys came up, and he was, like, a fucking infant. Remember?” Mulder nods. Chavez makes his face still the way he does when he’s being serious. “Long time ago, okay? Way back.”

Mulder crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at Zito. “Two years.” And that kid Zito used to be, gone in some fundamental way.

“Two years is longer than your whole life,” Chavez tells him, wiping his eyes with the side of his hand.

“Chavvy, seriously, make sense,” Mulder says impatiently. Chavez sneezes. Mulder blows out a breath. “You’re wrong, anyway.”

“Yeah?”

Mulder nods, sure of this. “He’s not gonna be stolen. He’s gonna go on his own.”

He doesn’t look back at Chavez, and tries not to hear Chavez laugh nasally and start to cough, barely managing to say, “man, you are in so much trouble,” and Mulder thinks that one of them must be delirious, Chavez with his late-summer, early-afternoon fever dreams, and Mulder with everything that he’s going to lose in a few weeks.

*

 _laws we don’t understand._

Mulder pitches real well in Game 2, and it’s mostly a rout, perfect hitting and some fucking middle relief for once, and then they go to Minnesota, even at one game apiece.

Zito’s up tomorrow, and already everybody’s talking about the choice to pitch him third, only one start in the series for the best pitcher in the league. Zito says the right stuff to the media about not wanting to go on short rest, three days since Texas, and Zito sells it, his other great talent, but Mulder can tell he wanted to be number one in the playoffs badly. He wants the first game and the last game, he wants to pitch in Hudson’s spot when the split is flat in the ‘pen, and close it out when Mulder only goes six.

Mulder can hear him thinking, ‘if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.’ And he could do it, too, he could win them the pennant with five good nights of his life, and all the nights of his life are good right now. When Zito’s like this, he could pitch twelve innings and still go drinking afterwards.

They get to Minnesota real late, and Zito makes sure to ask Mulder if it’s all right if he comes over for a minute, because maybe Mulder’s tired and Zito’s trying to be considerate like that, but Mulder just shrugs and mumbles something consenting.

Zito sits on the edge of the bed and starts to say, “So, listen, about the fucking around.” Mulder, unsurprisingly, takes that as an offer, and sits down next to Zito, sliding his hand across Zito’s back.

Zito smirks and shakes his head, “Actually, I was gonna say we should stop doing that.”

Mulder stops his hand but doesn’t remove it. Zito half-turns to face him, sees Mulder’s eyes flash briefly. He doesn’t say anything.

“For the team and shit, if you can believe that,” Zito continues, rolling his eyes to let Mulder know that he grasps the cliché. “But it’s kinda true. I think it’s all about, like, concentration, right now. We can’t get lost. And this is just. Distracting.”

Mulder cocks his head almost imperceptibly, and his fingers press into Zito’s side for a moment. Zito’s looking at him expectantly, but Mulder’s got six thousand numbers in his mind and nothing to say to Zito.

Zito shifts slightly against Mulder’s arm, and Mulder lets it drop, feeling relieved that he can do at least that. Zito licks his lips. “So. Okay?”

Mulder says cautiously, “You mean, just like, stop.” Zito nods, looking pleased to have finally got a reaction. Mulder rubs his hand across his face. “Nobody makes any fucking sense anymore,” he says, fingers against his eyes and his head starting to ache.

“No, it makes perfect sense, dude. Listen.” Zito pulls Mulder’s hand down, meeting his eyes with this incredible lack of malice, like what he’s saying is totally harmless. “This was just for fun, and now it’s time to, like. Simplify. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn’t, you know, serve a purpose.”

Feeling abruptly expendable, Mulder moves a bit away from Zito. “For the playoffs, you mean.”

Zito shrugs, and makes his eyes slip innocently away from Mulder’s. “Well, whatever,” he says, and that’s when Mulder realizes Zito’s done with him, Zito’s come to some conclusion about his life that involves leaving Mulder behind, and there’s no way to talk him out of something like that. “Anyway. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

He stands. Mulder is beginning to look stunned, and Zito wonders why with vague uneasiness. He thought the whole situation was clear. Effortless to start, effortless to end, that was the main point.

“Dude?” Zito asks, lifting his eyebrows. Mulder stays motionless for long moment, and then shakes his head slowly a couple of times, lines pressing at the sides of his mouth.

“You just decided this now?” Mulder says eventually.

Zito pushes a hand through his hair. “Oh, I was kinda thinking a couple weeks ago, that it would be a bad idea to keep it on, if we, you know, if we got this far. And then we. We got this far.”

“We got this far and that means we should stop?” Mulder asks sharply, and Zito blinks, double-takes. His eyes widen for a second, staring at Mulder.

“I meant the team, dude,” Zito tells him, speaking deliberately so that Mulder won’t misinterpret again. Mulder cuts his eyes away, his face flushing. Zito studies him suspiciously for a moment before deciding to let it go. Mulder’s probably having trouble understanding—it’s been a long day.

“Anyway,” Zito says again, noticing a new bruise on the side of Mulder’s wrist, right below where his glove would cover, and thinking about the many years left in their friendship and the odd moments of acknowledgement that will come between them, times when he’ll look at Mulder and remember all of this, the single best season of his life. “I gotta get some sleep.”

Mulder digs his nails into his palm, and says with his mouth sneered at the corners, “Your game.”

Zito doesn’t seem to see it, just nods happily. “My game.” He hesitates, arrives at some decision, and crosses back to Mulder. He gets a handful of shirt at Mulder’s shoulder, and pulls him up. He’s close enough that Mulder can see the faded gray smudge on his forehead, from this morning when his fingers were all black with newsprint and he kept touching his face.

Zito slips his thumb under Mulder’s collar and kisses him easily enough in a manner that can only be read as a goodbye. Mulder latches onto Zito’s hip, the speed of it surprising him, and pulls them closer together. He kisses back with everything he’s got.

Zito tilts his head accommodatingly and opens his mouth, lets Mulder suck on his tongue and push his hand down Zito’s chest until his fingers are just under Zito’s belt, palm spread wide on the flat place low on Zito’s stomach.

When Mulder foolishly breaks away to take a breath, though, Zito tries to pull back, laughing slightly like Mulder just told a good joke. Mulder’s other hand is on the back of Zito’s neck, and he holds Zito tightly in place, saying roughly, “Fuck your game.”

Zito looks at him blankly, as if he doesn’t even recognize the language. Mulder makes his fingers hard and painful at the base of Zito’s skull. “Fuck what happens next and just stay. Don’t even move, okay.”

Zito’s got that suspicious look back on his face, and he answers, “Couldn’t move if I wanted to.” Mulder nods, his eyes burning.

He hears Zito say with his voice a bit higher than normal, “Are you . . . wait, are you not all right?”

Mulder relaxes his grip, his face getting hot. Zito’s looking at him with growing uncertainty, still close enough for Mulder to feel in the air. Mulder thinks about what it would be like if he told the truth right now, how every day of his life from here on out would play.

Mulder breathes out in measured stages, and says without a flinch, “I’m fine. I’m just, wouldn’t that be fucking with the luck? Because it seems like it would be. It’s been like this all along, and we did pretty good. And there’s the thing about the fixing when it’s not broken. You know. We don’t want to just change everything, right out the blue.”

Zito grins and shakes head against the torque of Mulder’s hand. “Luck doesn’t count up here.”

Mulder would ask what fucking version of baseball Zito’s playing where luck doesn’t count, but Zito’s brushing Mulder’s hand off him like a leaf, tugging the wrinkles out of his shirt. Mulder’s watching him go like he’d watch anything that moves this slowly, feeling like someone’s poured salt on his heart.

At the door, Zito says, “I really liked being your friend who you fucked around with, man.” He smiles, flicks his head to get his hair out of his eyes. “That was a seriously good move on our part.”

Then Zito’s out and gone, and Mulder is gonna fall asleep tonight fully dressed and still with his shoes on, and all of his dreams are gonna be terrifying.

*

 _ungodly breaking stuff._

Zito loses the ball under the dome the next night, but not like everybody else does. It’s a two and one count in the second, a runner on first because Hatteberg and Ellis couldn’t hear each other call for the pop-up, collided and fell down on the turf.

The crowd here won’t stop to breathe, it’s nothing but noise, all the time. So Zito throws a change, loose in his fingers, and as he snaps his arm down, the ball disappears.

He’s gonna remember this forever, the ball suddenly lost out of his hand like that, looking for it in front of him on the path to the plate and seeing nothing, having no idea. The runner stutters off the bag, knees locking, and Zito scrambles, whipping around. There’s an intense, paralyzing burst of confusion, how could it just fucking _vanish_. The crowd is bigger than the whole world, open-throated and the roof torn off.

Hatteberg’s screaming something that Zito can’t hear, the runner breaks, and Hernandez rips his mask off, pointing with his glove. Then Ellis is darting in and scooping the ball off the grass just behind Zito, and he climbs the mound, pressing it into Zito’s mitt.

“Try to hang on, man,” Ellis hollers with a tense grin, and Zito gets himself back in the moment, the three-one count and the man on second, and he gets his win like everyone knew he would.

In the clubhouse later, after the media but before the team meeting, Zito’s explaining to Hudson how it happened, miming the loose grip and the flick of his wrist, and Mulder with his newly-hollow eyes sits quietly nearby until Zito asks, “You know what I mean, Mark, right? About the thing, with the change?”

Mulder jerks slightly, and cuts his eyes at Zito warily. “I don’t know much about what you throw.”

Zito kicks Mulder’s shoe. “Come on, you’ve been around.”

Mulder makes a bitter little smile. “I haven’t really been paying attention.”

Zito kicks him again. “Well, start. You’re missing everything good.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, then he says with his voice real low, “Okay.”

Zito smiles, and he thinks how great it is that things are right back to normal.

*

 _you have to respect a ballplayer just trying to finish out the season._

Hudson pitches, and loses, and it’s astonishing, and then they’re back in Oakland. In the players’ lot at the Coliseum, where the shuttle from the airport dropped them off, Mulder is at his car and already trying to keep tomorrow’s lineup from running compulsively in his mind. It’s very important that he doesn’t think about it.

Zito calls his name and Mulder looks over. Zito’s starting to head towards him and Mulder doesn’t know what he wants, because over means over, it’s win or go home and that’s another thing he’s not supposed to be thinking about.

Zito grins across the parking lot and he still looks like anything might be possible, but Mulder shakes his head, waving his hand. “Tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow,” he calls back, and Zito stops, looking abandoned for a moment before he shrugs and turns away.

Mulder gets in his car and rests his forehead on the steering wheel, hands at his temples. His lips are moving soundlessly, he’s chanting, one more, one more, one more.

After a long time, he picks himself up and follows the streetlights home.

THE END


End file.
